


‘tis better to have loved and lost

by Mythopoeia



Series: All That Glitters Gold Rush!AU: The Full Series [317]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: As In Like She Is Already Dead, Canonical Character Death, Childhood, Family, Finwe is also The One Who Is Dead now, Gen, Grief/Mourning, It’s Miriel, Manwe has a storm coming, Meanwhile in New York, Miriel Is The One Who Is Dead, New York City, Poor Indis, Poor Nerdanel, The A in AU stands for giving women Agency, The Women Are Forming a Squad, Theology, Tiny History Lesson Time, Title From Tennyson, We Love Our NYC Flashbacks!, Writing Indis made me sad about Fingolfin as I knew it Would, also hi Finarfin now go home and pretend to eat dinner, as is Feanor but, flashbacks!, shhhhhhhhhhh, so your wife doesn’t realize you were stress eating biscuits, whatever shall they do, yay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-24
Updated: 2020-11-09
Packaged: 2021-03-09 06:34:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27169399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mythopoeia/pseuds/Mythopoeia
Summary: Whatever gentle part of the boy Maedhros that was so deeply touched by beauty—whatever young romantic impulse there was aquiver in his breast—it was clearly deeply moved by the vision of his Grandfather reunited with his first, lost bride, and the coming of paradise.Maglor, however, frowned.“Where shall Grandmother Indis be, then?” He asked abruptly. “Shall she have hold of your other hand?”
Relationships: Finarfin | Arafinwë & Indis, Finarfin | Arafinwë & Nerdanel, Finwë/Indis (Tolkien), Fëanor | Curufinwë & Indis, Indis & Nerdanel (Tolkien), Maedhros | Maitimo & Maglor | Makalaurë
Series: All That Glitters Gold Rush!AU: The Full Series [317]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1300685
Comments: 8
Kudos: 20





	1. 1843

“Thank you, my dear boys,” said Grandfather Finwe, as they turned down the corner of — street. “It is a pleasant change, to have company. You have done me a great kindness.”

“It was no trouble,” Maedhros insisted, shivering as he hunched his shoulders a little deeper into his coat. It was a new coat, yet not new enough; fitted and sewn in early summer, and already an inch small at the shoulders and two inches small at the wrists. When his mother had shaken it out of the winter chest and held it up to him, she had frowned, but Athair had thought it nonsense to order a new suit of clothes to be made when in only a few weeks Maedhros should be living in the city and thus easily able to attend the tailor’s himself, without the added difficulty of the long drive from Formenos.

Nerdanel had done her best to fix the wrists by adding cuffs cut from an old pair of Athair’s trousers, but there was nothing to be done about the shoulders.

Grandfather Finwe had already promised him a grand day out to the tailor’s, and the cobbler’s, and the barber’s, and many more wonderful places besides. Even Maglor had been promised a new Sunday set, despite his current one still fitting with room to grow. But today, their first Saturday as fine city boys, Finwe had invited them to join him not to the shops but instead to his weekly visit to his first wife’s grave.

“You may think it no trouble now,” Grandfather Finwe said wisely, tap-tapping with his cane upon the pavement, “but that is only because you have not yet had time to make friends of your own age. Once you begin lessons, and social calls, you shall soon find your calendars filled up with appointments, you shall see! You shall not have the time any longer to spend a beautiful Saturday afternoon out walking with an old man. Ah, me.”

Maedhros’ brow furrowed, as it always did when there was any talk about _lessons._

“I shall always have time for you, Granddfather,” he said politely, and with utmost sincerity. “And I—I did want to see her. Our grandmother’s grave, I mean.”

“Athair told Maedhros that he looks like Grandmother Miriel,” Maglor chirped, eager to contribute, but he was startled by the look Maedhros darted at him: not proud, or pleased, but instead almost frightened. Grandfather Finwe, however, did not look upset.

“She did not, of course, have your mother’s beautiful hair, Maedhros,” Grandfather Finwe said with a smile. “But in feature you are indeed very alike. Folk called her elfin, when we were young.” The old man paused, a little saddened by the memory, and then smiled warmly again to reassure his grandsons—and one grandson in particular, who was watching him anxiously with Miriel’s smoked-glass eyes. 

“You have her eyes, especially,” he told Maedhros, “and her hands. Artistic hands, you know, just like your father. Have you trained with Feanor at all, in metalwork?”

“A little, sir,” Maedhros replied, “but not so very much—as he was gone, for so long, and since then I have had to—my schooling—“ he stammered a little, flushing as he looked down at his hands, and his grandfather hastened to comfort him.

“Well! Never mind that, never mind now. It is for the best, I am sure; a smithy is a dangerous place for small fingers. The amount of anxiety your father gave me over that, when he was a boy!—“

Tales about their father as a boy were rare treats indeed, and Finwe had the Irish knack for storytelling. The rest of the walk to the windy churchyard passed happily, and there was no more talk of school.

It was a very rare and prestigious honor, Feanor had impressed upon his sons on more than one occasion, to be buried in the grounds of grand St. Patrick’s cathedral. Easily one of the most beautiful and long-established bastions of Irish Catholicism in New York, the cathedral had run out of grave space long before Maedhros was born. Grandfather Finwe, however, being the splendid and important man that he was, had managed to purchase not only one plot but two, side-by-side, in a quiet corner of the cemetery. Athair had explained to Maedhros on a Sunday that this feat had been accomplished because Finwe was so beloved by his fellow Irish, whom he championed not only in city government but also in Washington itself. If Finwe—distinguished war veteran, accomplished craftsman, and gentleman politician—could not win a place for himself in the cathedral’s hallowed ground, then who could?

What Feanor did not explain at the time was that Finwe’s good fortune in grave-buying was at least as much to do with timing as with his social status; when Miriel died, long ago and far too young in the summer of 1807, it had not been nearly so difficult to purchase a plot of St. Patrick’s land.

Finwe led his grandsons confidently through the maze of green graves and headstones, some of the latter already half-swallowed up by the former, carven with Grecian symbols as was the fashion. Here and there a Celtic cross raised its stubborn arms, casting long shadows across the grass, but these were by far the minority. Not every Irish Catholic in New York had the privilege and nerve to be as open with his heritage as Finwe was, or as well-funded. Indeed, Miriel herself slept beneath a humble, unadorned headstone, marked with only her name and the date of her death. Finwe, a young man himself when she died, and a new father at that, had had little money left over for fripperies once he had paid for the burial.

Maglor, who had been imagining a rather more impressive tomb, did a poor job of hiding his disappointment. Maedhros stood with the reverent, wide-eyed manner of an altar boy, finally forgetting to tug at his coat sleeves.

“Well! Hello again, my dear,” Finwe addressed to the grave, with a tender smile. “I have brought your grandsons today, to pay their respects. This is Maedhros, and Maglor.” He turned to the boys and his smile warmed, as he tapped Maglor lightly upon the head. 

“Your father brought each of you here before,” Finwe informed him, wagging his finger. “After your christenings. But you have grown so much, it feels proper to make a new introduction, does it not?”

“Hello, Grandmother,” Maglor muttered, awkwardly, frowning at the simple headstone. The grave was well-kept and the letters were still sharply cut, clearly maintained over the decades. It was, however, not particularly romantic. Not so much as a Latin epigraph, Maglor thought mournfully, tracing the letters of his grandmother’s name with his eyes. 

“We visited with the twins, also,” Maedhros said softly, drawing his lip between his teeth. “When we stood up as their godfathers, we—do you remember, Maglor?”

“Not very well,” Maglor admitted. That had been years and years ago; he had been only eight.

“I had forgotten you were made godfathers,” Finwe said, pleased. “Your father does not visit here very often; the grief is too near still, for him. It is a terrible thing, to lose one’s wife; I cannot imagine how much worse it is, to lose a mother. You must have been a great comfort to him, when he brought the twins.”

“I carried Amrod,” Maedhros said, still in that mouse-quiet voice, but that was all. He was wringing his fingers together in thought, as he gazed at the little headstone; he did not seem to realize it.

“What was she like?” Maglor asked at last, with a quick look at his brother. “Our grandmother.”

Finwe sighed, and removed his hat to sweep one gloved hand back through his thick white hair.

“Oh, Miriel,” he said, pondering. “You have seen the portrait of her up in the house, have you not? It captures her likeness well enough, yet she was ever so much more beautiful in life. In the painting, she is quiet; in life she moved like a bird, or a deer: there was a wildness in her all her life, that came from the old country. She was a marvelous seamstress, and a weaver. A tapestry she made hangs on display in a Dublin museum! If ever you have the good fortune of visiting my hometown you shall have to go admire it. Your father took his talent for creation from her. I am handy enough myself, at the forge, but I have no genius for it; your grandmother made art of everything she did. She was a very intelligent woman, though she did not have the good fortune of getting a formal education. She used to love to have me read to her, in the evenings . . . In particular during the last days of her confinement, she loved that. She wanted, so much, to be a mother.”

The old man blinked, caught by surprise by the strength of the old grief, summoned up again with such swiftness. He set it gently aside, and hastened to reassure the boys still watching him.

“The important thing, Maglor, is that she would have loved you very much—indeed she does love you, both of you, for her soul can see you from Heaven.”

“I understand the functioning of souls,” Maglor answered, with dignity. He did not see his grandfather’s quickly stifled amusement.

“Of course you do,” Finwe replied gravely, and smiled again.

“You see there?”

The old man pointed with his cane, indicating the empty green space next to Miriel’s grave. Grass grew long upon it, fine and thick as ladies’ hair. 

“That is where I am going, when the Good Lord says it is my time. A queer thought to consider, is it not? That I see now with living eyes my own grave un-dug. Yet that is the good of salvation, my boys; since my soul is clean, I need not grieve overmuch during my years left alive, for I know I have this space in hallowed ground set aside for me here. When I am buried, I shall be reunited with my Miriel in death, and thus shall my bones be comforted—and when the trumpets of resurrection sound, we may arise triumphant as two souls together, hand in hand.”

Maedhros listened attentively, his eyes growing wider and wider. He was still a fanciful child, with a love for beautiful things; that much had been easily apparent in the week since he came to live under Finwe’s care. He had already divested Finwe’s private cases of no less than four books, and all of them novels. In conversation, he confessed a love for Scott, and for Andersen: fantastical characters and pretty, historical adventures. Finwe had recommended he further explore Dickens’ catalogue, to help foster his sense of social responsibility, but he had not begrudged the boy a look in his book of Irish folk stories either, nor how easily his grandson’s attention was distracted from prayer on Sunday by the light of the cathedral stained-glass, or the magnificent gowns the city ladies wore to service. It was a charming thing, to have a whimsical child about the place. Something intangible about Maedhros’ manner, in that regard, made the resemblance to Miriel even stronger. 

Whatever gentle part of the boy that was so deeply touched by beauty—whatever young romantic impulse there was aquiver in his breast—it was clearly deeply moved by the vision of his Grandfather reunited with his first, lost bride, and the coming of paradise. 

Maglor, however, frowned. 

“Where shall Grandmother Indis be, then?” He asked abruptly. “Shall she have hold of your other hand?”

“Maglor!” Maedhros cried, looking wounded. “Do not be rude! And in any case, she is a—a woman of the Church of England, so she shan’t be buried here.”

He looked quickly to Finwe, who smiled to show he took no offense.

“Our Father loves all His children,” he chided gently, “no matter the division of our faith. It is like how I can love both your own father, and your uncles, Maglor. We are all one family in the end, and shall all be called home together, I am sure.”

Maglor looked still dubious, but thoughtful. Maedhros nodded a little more earnestly than was necessary, as if to show that he represented his younger brother’s understanding as well as his own. Both boys’ faces were pinked by the combination of the cool breeze and their heavy coats; satisfied with the lesson imparted, Finwe clapped his hands. 

“Now! Why don’t we take a minute of silent prayer, and then be on our way home? Your grandmother will have supper waiting, and you ought to retire early tonight, so that you are fully refreshed when you meet your cousins tomorrow.”

Maglor, his nose all red with the cold, dutifully squeezed his eyes shut and clasped his hands together, mouthing pious words with all the haste of a boy who has his mind on hot supper and bed.

Maedhros did not pray. He meant to, of course! But when he reached for the words he instead found that all he could do was stand at the foot of the quiet grave, looking down at Miriel’s name, and at the blank spaces beneath. 

What a strange comfort, the boy thought: What a strange comfort it was, to be yet living, but to know where you will go when you die.


	2. 1852

“Thank you for accompanying me,” Indis said softly—still a little shy of speaking to Feanor’s wife, despite a full year of living with her already. Nerdanel shook her head, her wealth of russet curls only barely contained beneath her hat. 

“Please, do not thank me. It is no trial. He was—my father, too.”

It was very strange, living with another woman in close quarters, and this after so much of her life spent keeping house with a husband and three boys. Strange, but not unpleasant. Indis had never had much opportunity to get to know her eldest daughter-in-law, but she had always admired her from afar. Indis enjoyed lacemaking, and needlepoint, but never with more than a hobbyist’s skill or interest. She made christening gowns for both her sons, and then pretty little lace caps for all their own children; she took pleasure in decorating her home with doilies and seat covers, but such handiwork was mere diversion. She would have blushed, to think of trying to pass off any of her lacemaking as artistry—she had more than once urged Finwe to stop praising it overmuch, in the early years of their marriage. 

_I know I am not another Miriel, my love,_ she had cried at last, flinging up her hands. _Pray, do not keep attempting to make one of me!_

Mortified by her outburst, she had covered her mouth, on the verge of tears as Finwe stared at her, the humble lace square he held in his hands still spread out in a knotted white web between his fingers. He had drawn it out to exclaim over its beauty, to insist once again that she purchase finer materials, in greater quantity, that she might create marvels larger and more impressive than mere doilies. The lace, stretched between his hands as he held it up to the light, looked like so much spiderweb, frivolous and thin. 

( _I see the cobweb-weaving continues apace_ , Feanor would comment one day many years later, regarding the parlor’s decor with a cruel, thin curl of his lip.)

Finwe had set the lace carefully back down in her basket, and had come to sit beside her upon the sofa, wrapping his great arms about her, holding her tight. He was so much taller than she; when he held her so she was just tall enough that her ear rested between his collar bones, so that she could feel the beautiful resonance of his voice as well as hear it, that Irish lilt she had fallen in love with. 

_I do not wish another Miriel, my love,_ he had said then, the words humming through her. _I have never wanted—I shall never desire to make you anyone else, anyone but the woman I married. I love you, Indis. I love_ you.

_I know_ , she had sniffed, faintly, into his shirtfront—and had realized only as she said it that she had not known, not fully, until then. 

Her husband had never urged her to be more than what she was, after that, and she was all the happier for it, crocheting at her leisure, or not, as the mood took her. Indis was not an artist, in the same way neither of her sons were artists. The only creation that had her heart were her children. Feanor, however—Feanor and his _wife_ , however—

Nerdanel was a painter. A sculptor. A skilled hand at both etching and engraving. Once she married Feanor, she seemed to eagerly learn what she could from his metalwork, also, for she designed beautiful silver medals with each of her son’s saint pictures on them, for their baptisms. Indis never saw any of these herself, of course, until Maedhros and Maglor came to live in her house. But Finwe described them with such admiration, whenever he returned home from yet another grandson’s christening. 

What Indis did see, upon multiple occasions, were Nerdanel’s paintings and statuary. More than one of the gentlemen in Finwe’s circle commissioned Feanor’s wife to make portraits of their wives or children; these were popular not only for the novelty of a female artist, but because the images produced were always so lifelike and spirited, capturing the sitter’s likeness with such skill one half expected the subject to step from the picture frame, or to speak from the wall. Some of her work was still on display about Indis’ home: portraits in miniature of Nerdanel’s sons in childhood; charcoal sketches of Maedhros when he was only a month old, which a delighted Finwe had brought home from his week-long visit to Formenos. The bust of Finwe which she had made, cast in bronze from a mold she took months to fashion, still stood upon a plinth in his study, its expression perfectly balanced between how his gravity was ever tempered by kindliness, and how his eyes would smile first, whenever he broke into a laugh. 

In ten months, Nerdanel had not made any art whatsoever: no drawings of her husband and sons, no commissioned pictures of other people’s families. She avoided the parlor, where most of her artwork was still on display. Indis had considered taking down all the childhood sketches, all the miniatures in oils and chalk, as a kindness to her houseguest. But to hide away the images of Nerdanel’s children, as though they were something shameful, seemed somehow more cruel. 

A shock of cold wind whistling between the close-crowded brick buildings broke Indis from her musings, and she shivered beneath her fur wraps. Nerdanel hunched her shoulders protectively around the flowers in her arms, wrapped in her shawl: white tulips and late-blooming roses, arranged with beautiful green sprigs of evergreen. Feanor had once grown roses year-round at Formenos, and when Nerdanel had returned to her country house to settle her affairs Indis had encouraged her to bring back any cuttings she liked, to replant in her new home. She had returned empty handed, however. Indis had not pressed to find out why. 

These flowers she carried now were from a selection Indis ordered to the house from a city florist; Indis had spent the morning after breakfast arranging the bouquets with her daughter-in-law, who had of course a deft hand with both twine and scissors. They had spoken easily about a wide variety of frivolous things, such as Indis’ considering changing the color scheme of the spare room, and the recipe for the citrus tart they were served at tea, which was an old family recipe Indis had from her own mother, and had taught to the household staff. 

“Oh, no,” she had said to Nerdanel’s question, covering her slight awkwardness by pouring more tea. “I have not seen my mother since I married Finwe, nor indeed heard from any of my family. It was because I married a Catholic. They wanted nothing to do with me, after my engagement.”

“I am sorry,” Nerdanel had said, softly. Indis had blinked, and shaken her head. 

“It is all right, Nerdanel. I have had time enough now to grow used to the separation.”

Was that a lie? Perhaps. Even decades were not enough time, truly, to grow accustomed to the loneliness of lost family; estrangement became a part of one’s life, but never a pleasant part. Nerdanel had seemed a little subdued after that, even when Indis managed to turn the topic of conversation back to baking, with a promise of showing Nerdanel how to make a Twelfth Night cake at Christmas. Of course she must have been reminded of her own estrangement, from Feanor and all her sons. It was well over a year now since she last saw them, and days were growing colder. 

When they arrived at St. Patrick’s cathedral, there was no one else visible on the grounds. Indis held open the gate to churchyard, to allow Nerdanel to enter without disturbing the flowers she carried, and led the way through the lines of stones with a sad familiarity. If the cathedral gardener were here he would have welcomed her with a smile, and she would have asked after his newest grandchild, for the Irishman recognized her now after years of weekly Sunday visits. The woman in full mourning black, who came to the church not to attend Mass on Sundays but to visit the dead. She had gifted him a jar of preserves last Christmas, as thanks for his work in tending to her husband’s grave, and in providing her with friendly conversation. 

He knew who Finwe had been, and he had respected him, and regretted that he was dead. In the first days after her husband’s burial, even that basic sympathy had been enough.

“It is beautiful here,” Nerdanel said, when they were at the graveside together at last. She had knelt down, to arrange the flowers upon the green grass, and was now looking about at the quiet stones, the peaceful trees. Light dappled through the autumn leaves like dripping honey, thick and yellow, and moved over her face and hands. 

“It is quieter than I remember,” she continued. “And lovelier. One can almost forget, here.”

She did not say what it was that one could forget, but Indis did not press. Instead she merely murmured her agreement, and bowed her head in prayer.

_I hope you are happy,_ she thought, _and at peace, and that they have fiddle music as well as harps in heaven, and whiskey as well as wine. And I do not mind it, husband, if you do not think of me much now that you are—with her again. But—please watch over Fingolfin. I know you must be doing all you can, for Feanor, but he is Miriel’s son too, and I cannot see Fingolfin where I am, so please, please—_

“Indis, does it matter to you which bouquet goes to which grave?” 

Indis opened her eyes, and took a moment to control her lips’ trembling. Nerdanel was, mercifully, not looking at her. 

“No, no,” she managed at last, her voice almost normal. “Arrange them as you like, dear.”

One bouquet of flowers for Finwe’s grave; one for Miriel’s. This had been her practice ever since her husband’s burial.

Nerdanel still knelt upon the ground, heedless of how the position soiled her skirt. She had kept both a beautiful garden and a bustling pottery studio in Formenos, so perhaps it was not so strange to see her so careless of the dirt and grass, but Indis was still always surprised to see such countrified manners displayed by her accomplished daughter-in-law. Then again, Nerdanel never went out into society except to attend her Catholic Mass alone, so perhaps she simply did not see the use in tending to the state of any clothing that was not her solitary green Sunday gown. Indis knelt too, to help fuss over the lilies and distract herself from her melancholy. Her mourning gowns were all fashioned of the finest crepe and silks, but a little dirt would not show up much against black. 

Her husband’s name gazed at her from the grey stone, now nearly level with her eyes. He had not wanted an ornate headstone, never mind that he could have easily afforded one, and Indis had followed his wishes. It had been almost the first thing she had thought of, once she had gone past the first terrible shock of knowing he was dead: how important it was that his headstone look like Miriel’s. 

She had been the one to find him upon the bloody steps. She had knelt then like she knelt now, and had gathered his shattered head into her lap, and he had already been dead. He had paused to wait for her inside the doorway of their home as she drew on her gloves, and he had laughed when she had realized she had left her new wrap in the parlor, and he had gone to wait outside on the steps in the sunlight as she hurried back to retrieve it. She could have gone walking with him to the cafe without her furs, for it was not very cold yet that day, but she had not had the chance to wear them yet and had wanted to impress her husband with a little vanity. 

He had laughed, and teasingly set his hand upon the door handle; she had hastened back to the parlor and snatched up her wrap from the armchair she had tossed it over; she had stepped back into the empty hallway, smiling, and there had come the sound of a gunshot from the street.

It had been that quickly over. 

Indis knelt at her husband’s grave, smelling the sweetness of the roses and the lilies, and reached out to brush a little patch of moss from the stone. 

She said: “I do not think I ever told you how I met Finwe, Nerdanel.”

“No,” Nerdanel answered, after a brief silence: “I do not think you did. Was it in Philadelphia?”

“Yes; I took work as a seamstress when I was old enough, to help my family make ends meet, and Finwe came to the shop to have a shroud made, for his wife.”

“Miriel,” Nerdanel whispered, as though speaking the name could raise the woman’s ghost from the grass. Indis nodded. 

“She had died only a few days before he came to our door. He was so tall he had to stoop a little to fit beneath the lintel—and that made me look! But what caught my attention that first time was that he carried an infant with him, inexpertly swaddled, and so small it could not have been more than six months old. They had the same black hair, and it was such a—such an odd, funny picture. That tall man, with that tiny child! Later I understood he could not bear to leave Feanor in the care of his neighbors, and he had no money to hire a nurse, and so he carried him about like a parcel on all his errands. But at the time it was such an amusing sight.”

Very amusing, until Indis learned what the handsome, blue-eyed Irishman had come to purchase. 

_I’ve need of a shroud_ , he had said, _in a musical voice still hoarse from weeping. A lovely, fairylike shroud, for my wife is dead and I haven’t anything pretty enough for her._

“You know how the Irish hold wakes for their dead. Finwe told us how his wife had been a seamstress herself, and a weaver, and how he wanted something beautiful to bury her in. He tried so hard to be polite, but he had not nearly enough money for the kind of shroud he wanted, as this was before the war. As he spoke with the shop owner the baby in his arms began to cry, and he looked at such a loss. I wanted to help. I offered to hold the child for him, while he conducted his business. I felt so . . . So very sorry for him. For both of them.”

The tall Irishman had placed the screaming baby into Indis’ outstretched arms, and had called him Feanor. Up close, she could see the Irishman had been crying, too. His eyes were exhausted, beneath the blue, and his young face was haggard with grief. She had taken the baby to the corner of the shop, by the window, and had sung little nonsense songs to him, stroking the small black head, rocking to and fro. She knew well how to hold babies, having had four younger siblings to help her mother raise, and many cousins and neighbors besides. She patted the wailing child upon its shuddering back, too thin beneath its wrappings, and swayed gently.

_Feanor,_ she had sung, and the baby had stilled in her arms, staring at her with round, round eyes. _Feanor, hello. What pretty eyes you have, darling, what pretty hands. No more crying, darling, there’s a pretty boy. Hey? There’s a brave little man._

“I did not fall in love with Finwe only,” she explained to Nerdanel, wiping at her eyes. “I loved Feanor, too, no matter what he—what he has said. I was so happy to be his mother. I understand I must have gone wrong somewhere, but I—I want you to know that I truly did try. That first day, when I met Finwe, and soothed that poor motherless baby—I only ever meant to do him good.”

Indis had not realized Finwe was watching her, as she hummed to the baby in her arms, until he stood almost beside her. She had not realized he had finished speaking to the shop owner. 

_You have him asleep,_ Finwe had whispered, gazing down at his child. _Lord but I wish I knew the trick of that; he has cried so much since—she passed. Thank you._

_I have practice with holding babies,_ she had said, looking up and up into Finwe’s face. _Don’t worry yourself, sir; he will sleep better with time. I’ve seen it before, with motherless children. It will get easier. Especially since you are taking such good care of him._

She had carefully passed the sleeping child back to its father, and had opened the door for Finwe so that he need not shift the baby and risk waking him again. They had stepped out into the street together, and she had not been able to keep from asking if he had managed to purchase what he had wanted.

_Alas, no,_ he had replied, with a rueful, miserable little smile. _I was a mad fool, I know, to think I could afford anything of that sort. I was never able to—to provide what she deserved, really. Plain linen shall have to suffice. Thank you,_ he had said again as a goodbye, though there was nothing at all Indis felt she deserved thanking for.

_Sir, I do not wish to offend you by offering charity,_ she had answered, on sudden impulse. She blushed, when he turned back to look at her, and clasped her hands. 

_I cannot promise you anything so fine as what you wanted,_ she went on, too quickly to allow her embarrassment to stifle her, _but I know a little about making lace. I have some small pieces at home, and the materials. If you would like it, I would gladly give you some for your burial shroud—I cannot hem the actual shroud, you understand, for the cost and time would be too much, but I can hem a kerchief to lay over the face, when it is time for the burial. Something to help make it a—a little finer, and lovelier, if you wish that._

Finwe had stood silent a moment, his head slightly tilted, his child bundled sleeping in his coat.

_I would have to pay you,_ Finwe had said at last, slowly, and she had shaken her head firmly.

_Please don’t, sir. I don’t want anything from you; you use that money to buy good milk for your son._

_But why—_

_Because your wife must have loved your son very much, for him to miss her so,_ Indis had replied, _and because I want to help. Isn’t it the Christian thing to do, to help?_

Finwe had smiled at that, and this smile was not as sad as the first had been.

_Then may I know your Christian name, miss? So that I know who to ask for, when I return?_

_I am Indis,_ she had told him, turning to go back indoors. _I shall be here tomorrow, waiting for you._

“I stayed up all night with my little candle, weaving that lace,” Indis said, laughing a little, as she wiped her eyes. “Oh, Nerdanel, I was such a foolish little girl.”

“You were a darling,” Nerdanel replied, with a little laugh of her own, and she pushed herself up to her feet, offering Indis a hand to help her up after. “And you should hear some of the stories I have of how silly I was over Feanor—oh, those fine young days when we were students!”

“I should like to hear them,” Indis said, a little breathless, smoothing out her rumpled skirts. God have mercy, she was growing old. 

“Well, perhaps after supper,” Nerdanel smiled, offering Indis her arm. Indis hesitated, then met the younger woman’s gaze directly.

“I hope I do not overreach, Nerdanel, when I say I am glad to have you as a companion—and, indeed, as a friend.”

Nerdanel looked astonished. Hastily, not even pausing to brush the grass from her skirts, she reached for Indis’ hands, pressing them gently between her own. 

“Of course I am your friend,” Nerdanel said earnestly. Something in her manner reminded Indis sharply and suddenly of Maedhros as he had been as a boy—of that look of eager love which he would give to Finwe so devoutly—to Finwe, but never to her. Then Nerdanel smiled and she was herself again, shaking her head. 

“Gracious, Indis, you have been kindness itself to me—more than kindness, for you have given me none of the blame I deserve, and opened your home to me without once making me feel in your debt. And I _am_ indebted; I would be in the poorhouse now, or dead, if not for your charity. But you have treated me as a guest. As—as I know you must have treated my poor boys, when I sent them to live under your care. You can have no idea, Indis, what a comfort that is to me. I fretted over them so much, in those days.”

She sniffed, and blotted her eyes with the back of her glove, having no kerchief to hand. 

“Oh mercy, there I go again. I never used to weep so easily; I used to grow angry, instead of giving in to tears. The quarrels we had!”

“You and Feanor, you mean?” Asked Indis, tentatively. Nerdanel sniffed again, and squared her shoulders. 

“Of course. Can you imagine living with the man and not quarreling with him? But I’ve finished all my fighting now—for good, I shouldn’t wonder. He felt I betrayed him. I know he did. What matters a little more betrayal, then? I have had done with—with letting Feanor be my leader in all things.” She smiled a brave, watery smile, and patted Indis’ hand gently once more before releasing it. This time when she offered her arm, Indis took it in silence, 

“I am your friend, Indis—and your daughter, if you shall have me. I am only sorry it took this long.”

*

The late autumn sunshine cut narrow and low down the pavement as the two women walked home at last, washing their steps in gold and wrapping their shoulders in slate-cold shadow. It was a gorgeous sunset: the sun was falling asleep in fire, and the ribboned clouds unraveled overhead, under-lit like smoke. There was a smell of rain in the air, cold and sweet, and as Indis led the way up the steps to her front door she looked forward to a warming cider, and a hot supper. It was drawing near half-past five, and the exercise had roused her appetite.

When she stepped through her front door, however, she had scarcely begun to remove her shawl when a maid came hurrying to greet her, rushing to help take her wrap and muff.

“Welcome back, ma’am. Master Finarfin is waiting for you in the parlor; he arrived not long after you left, and said he needed to speak with you urgently. I promised I would tell him when you returned.”

“No need, Mary,” Indis said, setting aside her gloves. “I shall go to him directly. Did he seem—distressed?”

It was not unusual for Finarfin to make impromptu visits, since Fingolfin departed, but it _was_ unusual for him to wait if she was not home. Perhaps it was paranoid of her to feel such immediate foreboding, but—

“No, ma’am,” Mary said, sweeping aside to hang Indis’ winter things upon the appropriate hooks. “A little excited, maybe, but nothing to alarm yourself over. I had a tea tray sent in a quarter of an hour ago.”

When Indis stepped into her parlor it was to the sight of her youngest son sitting alone on the sofa, her cream biscuit tin half open on the cushion beside him, and the silver tea service on the table untouched. Finarfin’s yellow hair, very like Indis’ own, was in disarray, as though he had been running his fingers through it as he thought. He sat with one stockinged foot drawn up upon the cushions, and his arms wrapped around the lifted knee, his chin resting on top of it. It was how he had used to sit when he was deep in thought, as a child, but Indis was surprised to see such behavior in him now, as a grown gentleman of forty-two.

Finarfin’s head snapped up to look when she called his name, and he hastily dropped both feet to the rug.

“Mother!” he greeted her warmly, springing up to meet her, but his usual embrace was somehow distracted. Indis half-caught a queer look he gave Nerdanel, over her shoulder. 

“Mary said you had gone walking,” he explained, pulling away, “but I chose to wait, and so—no, no, it is I who must apologize to you, for once a hour passed I took the liberty of helping myself from your biscuit tin, and I have already eaten at least half a dozen. I have quite spoiled my supper.”

“Darling, you know I keep that tin for you,” Indis chided, smiling, but Finarfin’s answering smile was, like his embrace, a nervous, hasty thing. 

“I shall not keep you from your own supper very long,” he said, again looking quick and sidelong towards Nerdanel. “But, mother, I came to call today because—have you heard from the governor at all, today?”

“Manwe?” Indis’ brow furrowed in confusion, but Finarfin only nodded.

“The very same. He sent me an invitation this afternoon—only a card and his compliments, but he requested we meet at my earliest convenience. The man he sent was very clear that he intended this message to be delivered with urgency. Something has—happened. He must have some news. I cannot think of any other reason for him to wish to meet with me, and so I came here at once because I thought—“

Nerdanel had already disappeared back into the hall; they heard her exclaim and then she reappeared, holding a little white card in her hand. 

“It is an invitation for both of us, Indis,” she said, her ruddy face gone pale. “Exactly as you said, Finarfin. So it must be—It must be Feanor. Governor Manwe would not think to include me in news of Fingolfin.”

Though normally so steady, Nerdanel was visibly shaken, and when Indis coaxed her to sit in the armchair she dropped almost without protest, looking numbly at the card in her fingers,

“I don’t want to know,” she whispered, helplessly. “All this year I thought I did, but I—I am so afraid—“

“I am certain the news is not so dire, Nerdanel,” comforted Indis, who was not at all certain. She looked to Finarfin, who looked similarly grim. The expression was unsettling on her cheerful son’s face; it made him look much more like Fingolfin than usual.

A pang smote her heart.

“Finarfin, you and your family are still free to attend Christmas dinner, aren’t you?”

Finarfin frowned.

“Well—yes, mother, we are still planning on coming, but I don’t see—“

“I shall be inviting the governor to join us,” Indis said, moving to sit in Finarfin’s vacated spot on the sofa and reaching for the tea service. As if on cue, Mary slipped into the room carrying more cups and spoons.

“Thank you, Mary dear—Ah, what was I saying. Yes: both Manwe and his wife, I think; I have yet to meet her, but I have heard she is quite the luminary in high society this year. Mary, please fetch me my notepaper, if you would, and my writing desk; I shall have to draft the invitation directly. We can send it tomorrow, first thing. Nerdanel, you do take sugar in your tea, don’t you?”

“Only a little,” Nerdanel said, still very faint, and she reached automatically to take the proffered cup and saucer from Indis’ hands. Finarfin—who took very much sugar in his tea, as well as cream—looked bewildered as he accepted his own cup and sank back upon the sofa beside her.

“Mother, the governor says this is urgent, and Christmas is still a week away. Don’t you think—That is, if you are too anxious to hear what he has to say, I can meet with him alone tomorrow, and report back to you whatever the news is.”

“Nonsense, Finarfin,” Indis said, raising her own teacup to her lips. The hot tea was wonderfully bracing; she held the cup cradled in her hands, rather than resting upon its saucer, to disguise how her hands were trembling. She drew a deep breath.

“Whatever it is that the governor wishes to tell us, it can wait a few days more. I think we all need the time to brace for the news, that we may meet whatever it is with equanimity. And I prefer to have that man come to meet me here, in my own house, if he wishes to discuss news of either of my sons. Nerdanel, dear,” she added, in softening tones, as she looked to her daughter-in-law. “If you should prefer otherwise, I shall bow to your wishes. But I fear we should be a spectacle, if we were to go to the Governor’s home together, and I know how you have tried to keep out of the public eye. Are you willing to wait a few days, and hear what he has to say then?”

Nerdanel shut her eyes, and bowed her head.

“Yes,” she whispered. “I—thank you. Yes. Oh, God.”

“Very good,” Indis said, covering the sound of Nerdanel’s sob, and she turned back to Finarfin, reaching out to tenderly cup one side of his face with her hand.

“Thank you for coming to warn me,” she told him, with what she hoped was a soothing smile. “Now finish your tea while it’s hot, and make sure to wrap your throat warmly before you hurry back to Earwen and the boys. And do not forget these,” she added, tapping one of his discarded shoes upon the carpet with her own booted toes, and he smiled, a little shamefaced, and ducked to retrieve them.

It was a habit he had learned from Feanor: sitting with his feet drawn up.

_Oh Finwe,_ she thought, as Mary returned with the lap writing desk, and the little bottle of ink:

_Oh, my love, protect us all from whatever it is we must know._


End file.
